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Awful headcanon, but if I had to imagine it, so do you:
Col. Phillips sent that condolence letter before he found out what Rogers & Carter were up to.
Then he had to send an "I made an oopsie" telegram when Bucky returned to camp.
Then he had to send another letter saying "You're not gonna believe this, but..."
Not sure I've got the fortitude to write a fic from the poor Barnes' family perspective. 😭
Summary: A chance encounter has Peggy comforting the SSR's jittery candidate for the Super Soldier Serum and leads to her blurring the line between professionalism and any notion of a love life she could possess while fighting a world war. Or, what if Peggy Carter and Steve Rogers had met on the night before Project Rebirth?
Pairings: Steve Rogers X Peggy Carter, Peggy Carter X Reader (Platonic)
Word Count: 3.3k
Warnings/Disclaimers: None
A/N: Hi there! Sorry this one-shot's so late, I was going to upload it weeks ago but then my sister got me sick and recovering from that's been awful, but I'm better now and ready to give ya'll some Steggy fluff! Thank you for reading, I hope you all enjoy!
Serendipity
June 1943
Camp Lehigh, New Jersey
(Previous One-Shot)
When Peggy was assigned to oversee Project Rebirth and learned that she was to be stationed at Camp Lehigh for the duration of the top-secret program, she excitedly believed that she’d have an opportunity to see the stunning sights of New York City. She’d been slightly disappointed to step off the airplane and discover that not only was the U.S. Army base in an entirely different state, but that it was also in the countryside, far away from the prying eyes of civilians and entirely devoid of the hustle and bustle of the sprawling cities she’d seen in newsreels. Despite her initial disillusionment with her temporary living situation, Peggy quickly grew fond of the rural backwoods of New Jersey; it was peaceful, a welcomed change of pace from the rotating catalogue of undercover aliases and the countless missions she’d completed in the over two years since becoming a fully-fledged field agent, and the idyllic scenery reminded her of (Y/N).
Agent (Y/N) (Y/L/N) was originally assigned to accompany Peggy to America and help oversee the progress of Project Rebirth – as liaisons to the OSS and the SOE, respectfully, they would be required to inform their superiors of the SSR’s newest developments – but it quickly became apparent that the SSR’s London headquarters simply couldn’t afford to lose its most skilled codebreaker for any extended period of time. Needless to say, (Y/N) had been devastated by the news; she hadn’t seen her home country in three years and not only was she terribly homesick, but she’d been looking forward to calling her little brother Freddie on the telephone. Peggy promised her best friend that she’d give her brother a ring and relay any message she wanted to give him, but she knew deep-down that it couldn’t replace the missed opportunity of finally hearing his voice after so long.
Hopefully the plethora of Hershey bars and fresh tubes of red lipstick that Howard procured will be enough to cheer her up, Peggy thought to herself with a smile, glancing down at the half-finished letter resting on the tabletop; the American codebreaker was partial to the impossibly-sweet chocolate she’d grown up with, and anybody who’d ever had the pleasure of meeting her knew how much she adored her signature shade of lipstick. Before departing the base to begin preparations for the procedure in the SSR’s Brooklyn headquarters, Howard even promised to pick up the Andrews Sisters newest record, claiming that their best and brightest codebreaker needed to be kept in high spirits, but Peggy had an inkling that gifting her a record from her favorite singers was yet another of the inventor’s fruitless attempts to woo her best friend.
“Oh!” Peggy looked up to see a surprised Steve Rogers standing in the doorway of the mess hall, a beat-up notebook and a pack of cigarettes tightly clutched in his hands; the dark circles under his widened azure eyes were a stark contrast to the pink blush dusting his cheeks and the sharp lines of his shoulders were drawn up to his ears, anxiety rolling off of him in waves. “I-I’m sorry, Agent Carter, I didn’t think anyone would still be in here-”
“It’s all right, Private Rogers. This is a communal space, after all,” Peggy kindly pointed out, gesturing towards the empty seats across from her and giving the nervous soldier a welcoming smile, pleased when his shoulders relaxed and he slowly crossed the room to take the seat across from her. “It’s nice to know that I’m not the only other night owl on base.”
As per Colonel Phillips’ orders, she’d thoroughly broken in their newest recruits and oversaw the completion of their training with a critical eye, her no-nonsense attitude from the jump and the rather violent way she’d dealt with Private Hodge’s disrespect ensuring that the group of soldiers remained skittish around her throughout the entire week; she’d hardly paid it any mind, already quite used to men not knowing how to conduct themselves around her, but she found herself drawn to Private Rogers and his intriguing behavior. The diminutive man, while clearly uneasy during their brief interactions, listened attentively while she ordered them through their exercises, never once talked back to her and always greeted her with a polite tip of his head. Clearly, he didn’t have any problem taking orders from a woman, but it seemed as though he had trouble holding a conversation or even being in the general vicinity of one. Doctor Erskine was right about him being different from the others, Peggy silently admitted as she watched him pluck a cigarette out of his crumpled pack and fish his lighter out of his trouser pocket.
Right on cue, Steve’s head shot up and he lowered his hands as his lips curved downwards into a concerned frown. “Is it all right if I smoke? They’re medicinal, for my asthma.”
“Of course, I don’t mind.” He relaxed once again and lit his cigarette, and Peggy considered him while he took a long drag and blew the smoke out of the corner of his mouth. “I can only imagine how relieved you’ll be to never have to smoke those after tomorrow.”
Steve blinked in surprise, seemingly not expecting her to initiate a conversation with him, but after a moment’s hesitation, his features relaxed into a nervous smile as he fiddled with the worn edge of his notebook. “Here’s hopin’ that things go well, then.”
“Of that I have no doubt; Doctor Erskine is a brilliant scientist, and the SSR is indebted to him for agreeing to lend his scientific expertise to further our cause. Rest assured, you’ll be in safe hands tomorrow, Private.”
Steve nodded in thanks and Peggy resumed working on her half-written letter, hoping that her expression hadn’t betrayed the apprehension she’d been grappling with the entire day. The uncertainty of the next day’s procedure weighed heavily on the minds of every member of the SSR stationed at Camp Lehigh and while many of them – including Steve Rogers himself – were primarily concerned with what success or failure would mean for the ongoing war, Peggy was worried for their chosen candidate’s well-being; their week of training showed her that he was a good man, whose kindness was matched only by his ingenuity and bravery, and it was clear to her that he was meant to be more than just a failed test subject. Despite her misgivings, however, she chose to put her faith in Doctor Erskine and relegated her personal opinion to the furthest recesses of her mind, reminding herself of her duty to further the SSR’s cause and trying her hardest to ignore the way her heartbeat quickened whenever Steve shyly smiled at her.
“So, you…um, you’re fond of baking?”
“Not particularly. Why do you ask?”
“Your…well, um, your book…” Steve carefully explained, and Peggy glanced up just in time to catch the adorably confused expression that flashed across his drawn features. “My Ma used to have a book like that when I was a kid, on a shelf right above our stove. She must’ve flicked through that thing every single day, looking for somethin’ new to try out; the only time I ever heard her cuss was when her angel food cake for the church fundraiser refused to rise.”
Peggy chuckled, pulling her copy of All About Home Baking closer and shaking her head. “I possess many talents but unfortunately, baking isn’t one of them. No, this is the book that I use to encode my correspondences to my friend; she’s an SSR codebreaker, one of our best and brightest, and we’ve used Ottendorf ciphers to encode our letters for years now.”
The soldier’s head tilted to the side as curiosity filled his azure eyes. “How’s an Ottendorf cipher work?”
“Well, you and whomever you’re corresponding with choose a written work – it can be a book, poem, play, document, or anything that’s longer than a paragraph, so long as it has a wide variety of words – and that written work acts as a key to encode and decode messages.” Peggy pulled (Y/N)’s sent letter out from the back pages of the cookbook and tilted it to show Steve. “In this line, my friend writes that her great-uncle’s sixty-second birthday was on June 7th and his second wife wore a blue organza gown. 62-7-2; page 62, the 7th line down and the second word across…” She flipped through the cookbook to a chapter about sponge cakes and trailed a red lacquered nail down the page to the correct word. “Is ‘finally.’ Fully translated, this paragraph is about how her younger brother finally asked the girl he’s been sweet on out to the movies.”
Steve, who’d listened to her explanation with rapt attention, whistled lowly and flashed her an impressed smile. “And you and your friend write all of your letters like that?”
Peggy shrugged. “Sometimes. It depends on how sensitive the topic we’re discussing is, really; we use Ottendorf ciphers for more banal, everyday conversations, but if we’re discussing anything to do with the SSR, we’ll use more complex codes that are difficult to spot and even more challenging to decode in the event our letters fall into the wrong hands.”
“And they want me to be their first super-soldier? A ninety-five-pound asthmatic whose lost every single fight he’s ever thrown himself into…” He snorted self-deprecatingly and shook his head. “You’re way more qualified for the job than I could ever hope to be, Agent Carter.”
Arching a doubtful brow, Peggy searched Steve’s expression for any trace of sarcasm but to her surprise, all she found was unabashed sincerity. “Is that so?”
“You’re kiddin’, right? You knocked a guy almost twice your size flat on his ass without breakin’ a sweat, you ran towards that dummy grenade without a second thought the same as I did, you’re a genius codebreaker and you’re a beautiful dame-” Steve’s eyes widened comically and all the blood drained from his face as he quickly stammered out, “O-Or a beautif-a woman. A-An agent. You, you are beautiful, but-”
“You have no idea how to talk to a woman, do you?” Peggy asked, an amused smile playing on her lips at his endearing floundering.
Steve awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck and chuckled. “I think this is the longest conversation I’ve had with one. Women aren’t exactly lining up to dance with a guy they might step on.”
Peggy’s brow furrowed slightly before she could temper her reaction. “The dear friend I was telling you about is American – a born and bred Californian, as a matter of fact – and she tells me that dancing’s all the rage here. Surely you’ve danced before?”
“Your friend’s right about the dancing, but I can’t say that I have. Asking a woman to dance always seemed so terrifying, and the past few years…it just didn’t seem to matter that much, so I figured I’d wait.”
“For what?”
The soldier was silent for a moment, his head tilted thoughtfully to the side as his eyes flicked down to study the table’s wood grain and his thin fingers rolled his cigarette back and forth. “The right partner.”
Butterflies erupted in Peggy’s stomach and while her cheeks flushed pink, she turned her face away so she could smile at Steve’s heartfelt words; it was refreshing, to say the least, hearing a man speak so eloquently about romance, and it made it incredibly difficult for her to ignore the attraction that had steadily grown towards the handsome soldier over the past week. After ending her engagement to Fred Wells and enlisting in the SOE, Peggy put any notion of romantic love out of her mind and focused solely on honing her skills as a spy, choosing the war effort over her personal life time and time again; she was supported by (Y/N), who’d made a similar decision shortly before arriving at Bletchley Park three years prior, and while the slavering, ill-mannered male specimens that surrounded the both of them made it all too easy to keep their resolutions, there was something about Steve Rogers that made her ironclad resolve begin to waver.
It didn’t help matters when Peggy turned to see Steve hastily looking away from her, a blush spreading across his pale face as he took a long drag of his cigarette and attempted to pretend he hadn’t been staring at her. Unsure how to reply to his heartfelt declaration, Peggy mentally scrambled for something – anything – to say to fill the heavy silence, finally settling on the most inconsequential thing that could possibly come out of her mouth. “I saw a raccoon for the first time this week.”
Steve’s azure eyes widened in surprise. “They don’t have any raccoons in England?”
“No, I’ve been told that they’re only native to North America. I was returning to the barracks after meeting with Colonel Phillips the other night and it scampered across the path in front of me; they’re furrier than I thought they would be, but still very cute.”
“Yeah, they’re real cute, but just wait until they ambush you while you’re tryin’ to take out the garbage…” Steve shivered exaggeratedly and grinned when Peggy chuckled. “I’m serious! A buddy of mine almost lost a finger to one of those little beasts once, and he’s still got the scar to prove it.”
Peggy nodded to herself. “Small, adorable and willing to fight grown men whilst striking fear in their hearts by merely existing? I do believe that raccoons are my favorite animals now.”
Their laughter was cut short by a knock on the doorway and Peggy turned to see Doctor Erskine, a contrite smile on his face and a shimmer of approval in his bespeckled eyes. “I apologize for the interruption, Agent Carter, I was not aware that you had company this evening.”
“It’s quite all right, Doctor Erskine, it seems as though Private Rogers and I are both night owls this particular evening.” Peggy smiled politely at the German doctor. “I was working on a letter to Agent (Y/L/N) while he was treating his asthma.”
Erskine’s greying brow furrowed in concern as his gaze shifted to the soldier seated across from her, who was engrossed with doodling something in his notebook. “You did not mention feeling out of sorts when we spoke earlier, Steven. Are you feeling all right?” Steve didn’t react, seemingly deeply focused on whatever he was jotting down. “Steven?”
Steve’s head snapped up and Peggy quirked a curious brow when his hand quickly moved to cover his work. “Just a little shortness of breath as I was tryin’ to get some sleep but I feel a lot better now, Doctor Erskine. It was probably just nerves, y’know…about tomorrow.”
“That is only natural, Steven, but ensuring that you get plenty of rest is essential. Tomorrow is an important day for you, after all.” Steve nodded in understanding and a satisfied Erskine turned his attention back to Peggy. “I was sent to inform you that Colonel Phillips would like a word in his office regarding tomorrow’s security protocols; I believe he has some concerns about the undercover agents that were selected?”
Peggy bit the inside of her cheek to suppress her irritation at her superior officer and his paranoia, instead giving Erskine a long-suffering smile that he was quick to return. “Thank you, Doctor Erskine, I’ll head over there now.” The doctor bid them both good night, the mischievous gleam in his eyes as he looked between them both causing Peggy to flush with embarrassment, unused to her feelings appearing so transparent to others. As his footsteps echoed down the hallway, she offered Steve an apologetic smile as she tucked her half-written letter back into the pages of the old cookbook. “I’m sorry to leave on such short notice, but I wouldn’t put it past the colonel to assign me push-ups if I’m don’t shake a leg. Will you be all right, Private?”
Stubbing out his cigarette in the nearest ashtray, Steve blew out the last of the smoke before smiling softly at her. “I’ll be okay, Agent Carter. The cig helped, no doubt about it, but I think sittin’ here with you helped a whole lot more.”
“Well, then, I’m glad I could be of service.” Peggy fought the wry smile threatening to split her face. “And you can call me Peggy, if you’d like.”
The soldier’s azure eyes met hers and their focused intensity nearly succeeded in taking her breath away as his face broke out into a delightfully teasing smile. “Only if you call me Steve.”
She raised her brows at his bold refute and feigned a study of him before ultimately nodding. “I hope you have a pleasant rest of your evening, Steve.”
“G’night, Peggy…” He stood when she did and while she clutched her improvised stationary set to her chest, he shoved his hands into his trousers’ pockets and his smile softened. “I, um…I meant what I said, about how talking with you helped put my mind at ease. Thank you for that.”
Peggy, resisting the inexplicable urge to reach forward and give his shoulder a comforting squeeze, only nodded before turning and leaving the mess hall. The warmth of Steve’s bashful smile was enough to stave off the cool night air as she crossed the quiet base on her way to the colonel’s office; passing under the overhead lamps, her eyes were drawn to the unfamiliar scrap of paper sticking out from the top of her battered cookbook and she found herself straying away from her path to climb into a parked medical Jeep, far from the prying eyes of the MP’s patrolling the base.
After taking a cautious glance out the Jeep’s windshield, Peggy flipped open the book and was forced to clap a hand over her mouth to muffle her surprised laughter at what she found. There, tucked between the pages of her cookbook, was a sketch of a raccoon; the lines were sharp and unrefined and there were graphite smudges along the edges – clearly, it had been done in haste – but it was a remarkable likeness, the artist’s natural talent easily shining through despite the paper’s jagged edges and its many blemishes. Peggy’s eyes drifted down to read the looped signature near the bottom of the sketch and she reached out to lightly trace it with the pad of her finger, her bemused smirk softening into a heartened smile at the soldier’s kind gesture.
Over the years, she’d had the distinct displeasure of being the object of men’s desire, and she’d grown quite adept at rebuffing and rejecting their clumsy and – more often than not – downright disrespectful advances. But despite the overwhelming negative experiences with members of the opposite sex she’d endured, her brief encounter with Steve Rogers was almost enough to make her forget each and every one of them; he’d listened to her talk about a centuries-old style of code with rapt attentiveness, complimented her skills as an SSR agent before accidentally revealing that he thought she was beautiful and shown her his gratitude for easing his anxiety over the next day’s highly dangerous procedure. And then, he’d torn a page from his own notebook and doodled a raccoon for her, thanking her for helping him with such a sweetly innocent gesture and proving to her that he’d been listening to everything she’d said.
“Doctor Erskine was right…” Peggy murmured down at the sketch, selfishly allowing herself another moment to bask in the warmth of the soldier’s smile before returning to her duties. “You’re a good man, Steve Rogers.”
While she continued walking to Colonel Phillips’ office, she clutched her beaten-up cookbook to her chest and tried her hardest not to giggle as she conjured up the image of (Y/N) studiously decoding their latest correspondence, only for the codebreaker’s reading glasses to slip off her nose and a surprised gasp to escape her upon learning that Agent Peggy Carter, a pillar of professionalism and fellow repudiator of matters of the heart, had found herself utterly and completely taken with a handsome American soldier.
A/N: Originally, this wasn't gonna have so much fluff but the story ran away from me lol Steve and Peggy are just so darn cute! Thank you all so much for reading and commenting! I’ve created a Spotify playlist inspired by this series, and I’ll be updating it every time I upload a new one-shot. Enjoy!
I like the idea of Chester Phillips as a father figure to Steve Rogers. Especially since Steve himself admitted that he saw Colonel Phillips as a father figure (in the comic: The Chosen)
So imagine, after Bucky’s "death", Steve—who was out drinking—is approached by Colonel Phillips. Steve says he couldn't bring himself to face Bucky’s family once the war is over.
Steve: "I’m not sure if I have the courage to look them in the eye if I walk home without Bucky by my side."
Steve admits he won’t have a family anymore. Because Bucky’s family was supposed to be where he returned to (with him), and he couldn't. Colonel Phillips didn't tell Steve that he could always come home with him and maybe invite Peggy and the Howlies over for a meal.
He always regretted that decision, because now, looking at Howard, who was obsessively searching for Steve, while he had already tried to come to terms with the fact that Steve was dead, he could only think:
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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
HI EVERYONE!! I am so, so excited. The long awaited (at least for me) chapter 3 of my BuckyCap AU is live as of now, and I'm hoping that after nine months, at least some of you from this spring are around to keep reading. My goal is to keep writing for this AU, I have several installments to the series started, and chapter 4 is already begun for this one. Much love, and thanks for reading <3
The Underwood Affair: Chapter 3: The Night of the Murder
Read it here on AO3
Song: "Night and Day" by Frank Sinatra
Rating: T
Ship: Carterwood (Peggy Carter x Dottie Underwood
Summary: Later that night, Howard Stark retires alone to his study. Moments later, a crash shatters the silence. The door is locked from the inside. When it is finally forced open, Stark is found dead, no signs of struggle, no sign of anyone else, only a shattered glass and the unmistakable evidence of poison. As the reality of a locked-room murder settles over Hawthorne House, Peggy Carter begins to piece together the scene. But she is not the only one who understands what she's looking at. From the doorway, Dottie Underwood watches with quiet, unsettling interest. The game has begun.
By the time the house settled into silence, it felt less like rest and more like something holding its breath.
Hawthorne House had the particular stillness of places that had seen too much and chosen to remember it quietly. The walls were thick, the corridors long, the doors heavy enough to muffle sound into something distant and indistinct. Even the wind outside seemed subdued, brushing faintly against the windows and hedges without ever quite rising to a proper disturbance. It was the sort of quiet that encouraged reflection.
Or suspicion.
I had not gone to bed.
I told myself it was habit, that after years of field work, I rarely trusted unfamiliar environments enough to sleep soundly on the first night. That it was simply practical to remain alert in a house full of people whose motives had been made abundantly clear over dinner.
But that wasn’t entirely true.
The truth is that I was thinking about Dottie Underwood.
About the way she had watched me across the table with open, unapologetic interest.
About the fact that she had made no attempt to hide her recognition of me.
About the house layout she had been memorizing, methodically, deliberately, as though she expected to need it later.
People did not memorize exits and corridors unless they intended to use them.
The only question was whether she planned to leave.
Or to ensure that someone else did not.
I sat in the small writing room just off the main corridor, a file open in front of me that I had not meaningfully read in the past half hour. The lamplight cast a warm glow over the desk, but my attention drifted constantly, toward the hallway, toward the faint sounds of the house settling, toward the lingering sense that something had already been set in motion.
I have learned to trust that feeling.
It has saved my life more than once.
A door clicked somewhere down the corridor.
I stilled instantly, my focus sharpening.
Footsteps followed.
Measured. Unhurried. Familiar.
I rose from my chair without making a sound and moved toward the doorway, stepping just far enough into the shadows of the corridor to observe without announcing my presence.
Howard Stark crossed the hallway with the careless confidence of a man who had never truly believed himself to be in danger. He adjusted the cuffs of his shirt as he walked, a decanter of brandy balanced in one hand and a glass in the other, as though the entire house, and everyone in it, existed for his convenience.
He looked irritated.
That was notable.
Stark thrived on attention, on control, on the illusion that he was always several steps ahead of everyone else in the room. If he was irritated, it meant something had not gone according to his expectations during dinner.
Perhaps Colonel Phillips had pushed too hard.
Perhaps Dr. Wilkes had refused to concede a point.
Or pehaps, more interestingly, someone had said something Stark had not anticipated.
He paused at the study door, glanced briefly down the corridor, his gaze passing over me without recognition, and stepped inside.
The door closed behind him with a quiet, final click.
I remained where I was, watching the empty hallway.
The study.
A private room. A controlled space.
If someone wished to confront Stark, that would be the place to do it.
I considered following.
The thought lingered longer than it should have.
Then I dismissed it.
If Stark wished for privacy, he would have it. And if someone intended to interrupt that privacy, I would learn more by observing the aftermath than by inserting myself prematurely.
Still, I did not return to the writing desk.
Instead, I remained in the corridor, listening.
Time passed.
Five minutes, perhaps.
Ten.
Long enough for the house to settle again into silence, for the faint creak of old wood and distant wind to reassert themselves as the only sounds.
And then—
A crash.
Loud.
Violent.
Decisive.
Glass striking wood with enough force to shatter.
I was already moving before the sound had fully faded.
The study door stood at the far end of the corridor. I reached it quickly and tried the handle.
Locked.
I knocked once, sharply.
“Stark?”
No response.
That, more than anything, confirmed it.
Howard Stark was not a man who ignored someone knocking on his door.
Behind me, another door opened.
“What was that?” Colonel Chester Phillips stepped into the corridor, fully alert in an instant.
“In the study,” I said. “The door’s locked.”
He crossed the distance quickly, testing the handle himself before stepping back.
“Stark!” he called, louder now. “Open the door!”
Nothing.
More doors opened.
Movement spread through the hallway as the others emerged, drawn by the noise and the urgency in Phillips’ voice.
Dr. Jason Wilkes appeared first, his glasses slightly askew, confusion already shifting toward concern. A moment later, Ana Jarvis stepped into the corridor, her composure intact but her gaze sharp, taking in the situation with immediate clarity.
“What’s happened?” she asked.
“We heard a crash,” I said. “He isn’t responding.”
Phillips didn’t hesitate.
“Stand back.”
He drove his shoulder into the door.
Once.
The wood groaned but held.
Twice.
The frame shuddered, the lock beginning to strain.
On the third impact, the lock gave way with a splintering crack, swinging inward violently.
The smell reached us immediately.
Sharp.
Bitter.
Wrong.
I recognized it instinctively.
Poison.
The study was dimly lit, a single lamp casting long, distorted shadows the room. Papers had been knocked from the desk, scattered across the floor. The brandy glass lay shattered, fragments glinting faintly where they had spread across the rug.
And at the center of it all—
Howard Stark lay collapsed beside the desk.
For a fraction of a second, no one moved.
Then training took over.
“Stay back,” I said, already stepping forward.
I knelt beside him, reaching for his wrist even as I took in the details.
The pallor of his skin.
The unnatural stillness.
The faint, white foam at the corner of his mouth.
There was no pulse.
No breath.
No hesitation in the conclusion.
Behind me, I heard Dr. Wilkes inhale sharply.
“Oh God…”
Ana Jarvis stepped closer, one hand lifting toward her mouth as she looked down at Stark, her composure faltering only slightly.
Phillips swore under his breath.
I let Stark’s wrist fall gently back to the floor.
Then I stood.
The room arranged itself in my mind, every detail slotting into place with cold precision.
The locked door.
The closed windows, latched from the inside.
The untouched decanter.
The shattered glass.
No signs of struggle beyond the fall itself.
No indication that anyone had entered or left.
A locked room.
I turned slightly, addressing the others without taking my eyes off the scene.
“Don’t touch anything.”
Phillips nodded grimly.
“Poison?”
“Yes.”
Wilkes looked from Stark to the door, confusion overtaking his shock.
“But—how? He was alone.”
“No,” I said quietly.
My gaze moved across the room again.
The glass.
The desk.
The positioning of the body.
The timing.
“He wasn’t.”
A movement at the doorway drew my attention.
I turned.
Dottie Underwood stood just beyond the threshold.
She must have arrived in the moments after the door was broken down, but I had not heard her approach.
That, in itself, was not surprising.
Her gaze moved over the scene with calm, measured interest, not shock, not horror, but something far more deliberate.
Assessment.
Recognition.
Understanding.
Then her eyes met mine.
And for the briefest moment—
She smiled.
It was subtle. Controlled. Almost imperceptible.
But it was there.
Not the reaction of someone confronted with sudden death.
The reaction of someone who had been expecting it.
Or worse—
Someone who understood it.
I held her gaze.
And something in my chest settled into certainty.
This was no accident.
No unfortunate coincidence.
This had been constructed.
A locked room.
A poisoned man.
A house full of suspects, each with motive carefully established only hours before.
And somewhere within that arrangement—
A mind that had planned it.
Dottie’s expression did not change, but her eyes remained fixed on mine with unmistakable interest.
As though she were waiting.
To see what I would do next.
I straightened slowly, turning back to the room, to the body, to the evidence that had already begun to arrange itself into a pattern I did not yet fully understand.
Warnings: Arnim Zola (lying POS), WW2 Bucky feeling left out of the loop.
Author notes: Bucky is starting to believe in his abilities and that he won’t become something dark, but there is still some mistrust.
<<Part 1
🪖 🪖
Interrogation Room
Knowing that Zola would have to be interrogated again on the subject of how much serum had been given to Bucky was the next step to be completed before the Howling Commandos could undertake the mission to retrieve the serum. Although the voice said that Bucky and Steve could retrieve it together, even he admitted the mission stood a better chance of success if the whole team was involved. The Colonel made it very clear that he would find out the dosage, especially now that he knew the diminutive doctor was a shrewd and manipulative character.
With Peggy Carter beside him, they entered Zola's cell. This time, the Colonel brought a tray of food better suited to the doctor's preferred vegetarian diet, lentil soup, whole grain bread and a jar of Marmite, along with a glass of tomato juice. It was gratifying to see how Zola's eyes widened at the sight of the meal, considering how many previous meals he had barely nibbled at. The Colonel pushed the tray towards him, smiling genially at the man, while Carter watched from the corner of the room.
"You took the trouble of making a vegetarian meal for me, Colonel? I appreciate it."
"Well, we're not cruel, Dr. Zola," answered Phillips. "You do need sustenance. The cook tells me the lentil soup is quite good and that marmite, although an acquired taste, is liked by many of the Brits. Go ahead, please, eat." Zola took several spoonfuls of the soup, smiled and took another before looking up at the commanding officer. "I do have some questions for you."
"I assumed as much," said Zola. "What do you wish to know?"
"Exactly what did you do to Sergeant Barnes when he was your prisoner at the HYDRA factory?"
A slight hesitation as Zola lifted the spoon was the only indication that he hadn't expected that question. Without making eye contact he responded.
"What makes you think I did anything to him? Has he said anything?"
"No, nothing specific other than you experimented on some of the prisoners, but his behaviour has drawn some attention and after what happened last night ... well, let's just say the Sergeant may not finish the war in uniform."
Phillips and Carter observed the doctor carefully as he processed what was just said. Putting his spoon down he opened the jar of Marmite and spread a thin layer on the bread, then bit into it, chewing it slowly, before sipping some of the tomato juice. Only then did he look at the pair.
"What exactly happened? I am a medical doctor. Perhaps I can help."
"I doubt that," drawled the Colonel. "Our doctors are sure it was something you did to him that put him in this state. Quite frankly, after seeing what he is capable of most of them don't think he can be helped. They wish to ship Barnes back to a nice psychiatric facility in the States, where he won't be a danger to anyone, except himself."
"He hurt someone? That is most unfortunate." Zola took a few more sips of his juice. "We did give the Sergeant a new medication when we realized he was suffering from pneumonia. Perhaps, it is a delayed reaction to it?"
"Like penicillin, you mean?" Carter spoke, then shook her head. "It was over a year ago, Doctor. I doubt the body would react to a medication that long after it was administered. At least, that's what our doctors said. Steve ... I mean Captain Rogers said it was like he was fighting ...." She looked at the Colonel. "Sorry, sir, it just slipped out."
Zola studied the looks between them, at the obvious way the Colonel glared at the woman for admitting that Barnes fought Captain America. His mind whirled with excitement. Even more than a year after the last serum treatment the benefits were still present in the Sergeant, enough for him to possibly injure the one man who had been a thorn in HYDRA's side since he rescued all those soldiers. It was imperative that the Sergeant receive the remaining serum, as well as completing the reconditioning treatment to turn him into the Winter Soldier. They wouldn't let him free to return to his lab but perhaps he could convince them to get the serum here. The reconditioning treatment could be done later, after Barnes had received most of the serum, but not enough to lock the effects permanently which would prevent the reprogramming of the soldier's brain. With the several HYDRA moles already in place in the American military, a memory suppression machine could even be set up at an allied base and the Sergeant's treatment continued in secret without the Allies even being aware of their true nature. Without even thinking the doctor took an energizing breath then realized the pair were looking at him strangely.
"Doctor, is there something you're not telling us?"
Phillips' stare bore into the doctor.
"Well, yes," he stammered, pretending to be telling them this information, reluctantly. "We did give the Sergeant an experimental treatment; nothing that harmed him, I assure you. In fact, it was something similar to Dr. Erskine's initial plan for his serum; something that could help the human body heal itself quicker and more efficiently. It seemed to do wonders for the Sergeant who was frankly in danger of dying but it was interrupted before it could be completed by the arrival of Captain America and the rescue of all the soldiers at the factory. Perhaps, his body is at a stage of withdrawal where he needs the balance of the treatment."
"You mean you also have a serum like Dr. Erskine's?" asked Phillips, trying to add some excitement to his manner. "How much does he need to complete the treatment? I know how many vials we injected into Captain Rogers to achieve the results of his."
"Yes, I do, but you needed to infuse him with Vita Radiation after to activate the serum, am I correct?" countered Zola, effectively admitting he had access to intelligence on Project Rebirth. "My serum does not require the radiation although I suppose it would draw out every last benefit if it were done all at once as the Captain's was. We injected it on a daily schedule, with the initial plan to extend it to six months, allowing the body to adjust at a slower pace. If, by the young lady's admittance, Sergeant Barnes was strong enough to affect Captain Rogers during an encounter, I would think we could double the dosage. However, the serum is all in a lab in Germany. Without it, I anticipate that the Sergeant's behaviour will continue to deteriorate." He shook his head sadly, making sure he appeared to be concerned about Barnes' health. "Such a sad outcome for a fine young man."
"How much serum are we talking about, Doctor?" Phillips looked at him. "Perhaps, we can send a team to retrieve it and bring back enough for the Sergeant. I agree that the prospect of sentencing Sergeant Barnes to a lifetime in a psychiatric facility for what is obviously a medical issue vexes me."
"Perhaps I could trouble you for a pencil and paper," smiled Zola.
Peggy Carter stifled the ill feeling that Zola's smile brought up in her. It was enough to make her vomit. She reached inside her pocket and pulled out a small pad of paper as well as a pencil, placing it on the table in front of the doctor. As he drew it in closer and began to make calculations she stole a look at Phillips. He seemed ready to lean over and knock the doctor's head off but glanced at her before resuming his troubled commander look. After several minutes of calculations Zola wrote something down on several clean sheets of paper and pushed them towards the Colonel.
"There, that is my best calculation of how much serum Sergeant Barnes needs to lock in the benefits of the serum and be at a fully operational status. I have also provided you with the location of my lab, along with the lock combination to get in and out quickly as time is of the essence if we wish to relieve the Sergeant of his dilemma." Phillips reached out to take the slips. "I only ask one thing." Phillips stopped then looked at Zola without changing the position of his head. "I wish to be present while he is undergoing the treatment. I understand he doesn't trust me but as a doctor and a scientist, I feel it is important for me to be there for what is sure to be a momentous occasion."
Phillips grasped the papers then stood up and looked at the doctor. "Of course, I'm sure we can come to some sort of arrangement." He waved the slip of papers like he would a flag. "Thank you, Doctor. You've been most cooperative, and I'll make sure to tell my superiors that. Enjoy your meal."
Phillips and Carter exited the interrogation room, where a trusted SSR captain and an MP waited.
"Once he's finished eating, I want him moved to another location," ordered Phillips. "We're certain there are HYDRA agents in sensitive positions in both the American and British military so find the most innocuous installation and transport him there where he can't contact anyone or be tracked. If Army Intelligence comes looking for him, I want them to know they have HYDRA moles that must be neutralized first. Once you find that place you send me a coded location message. I will reply when our mission has been accomplished."
Both soldiers saluted as the Colonel and Carter left with the location of Zola's lab and the amount of serum needed. In the jeep on the way to the airfield where the Howling Commandos waited, they said nothing, as the driver wasn't cleared to hear any top-secret information. He dropped them off in front of the stolen German aircraft, then drove a short distance away as Steve, dressed incognito and Bucky approached the Colonel and Peggy. Handing them the information he gazed at Bucky with concern.
"Zola said the schedule for your dosage could be doubled but it would still take weeks. He didn't disagree that all the serum could be given in concert with the Vita-Ray radiation treatment. Seemed to think it would draw out every last benefit. What does your voice say to that?"
Bucky waited for his counterpart's voice to make itself known. Just as he was about to tell Phillips that the voice wasn't answering he heard him.
"Theoretically it should work just as Steve's did, but it is a copy of the original incomplete formula that was used on Schmidt, which is why they had to inject you over a period of time. My medical colleague here would be willing to come and supervise the process, but he can't guarantee the results. It would also have to be in secret because his appearance may cause concern."
"He can come here?" Bucky repeated. "Would you come as well?"
There was no answer for a long time then he heard his voice. "I'm not sure that's a good idea but my medical colleague says he would feel easier if I was there with him, just in case. It's your call, Bucky."
Everyone was looking at him. The whole balance of the mission was on him, a sergeant with some unstable serum setting up shop in his body. Removing it wasn't an option. His only real choice was to take the full treatment, but something was coming soon that he would be needed for, so the treatment had to be sped up. He looked at Steve, whose impassive face showed that this was Bucky's decision. He wasn't going to pressure him in any way, but he would support his friend, like he had done since Bucky finally confided in him.
"Alright, I'll undergo the same treatment," he said to the Colonel. "The voice said he and a medical colleague are coming to supervise it, but it will have to be a secret location because of the colleague's appearance. He also can't guarantee the results."
"Very well," said the Colonel, without question. "While you're away, I'll contact Stark to set up the radiation chamber in a new location. When you return, we'll go there. Does your counterpart need any advance notice?"
"No, just let us know where the place is and when, and we'll be there. Bucky? No heroics from you and Steve on this. No matter what you might see there, don't interfere. Just go in and out then come back. Got it?"
"Understood," he replied, then looked at everyone. "Let's go."
As the aircraft took off, Colonel Phillips and Peggy Carter looked at each other, hoping this would go to plan. The driver was waved over, and the pair climbed into the jeep to be taken back to their base.
The Mission
As the Commandos looked at the camp in front of them, Bucky repeated what his future counterpart said about getting in and out of the lab quickly. They weren't to interfere with what was going on.
"What were his specific words?" Steve looked at his friend.
"No heroics from you or me on this." Bucky saw a grin appear on Steve's face. "No, he was quite specific that we get in, get what we came for and get out."
"Yeah, but he didn't say the guys couldn't do some damage." The superhero waved his hand at the obvious purpose of the facility, as the work crews of what were obviously civilians lined up while guards with snarling dogs on leashes approached them. "There's nothing stopping them from creating a diversion that might also allow a lot of these prisoners to escape. You and I won't be involved. We'll already be inside the lab." He raised his eyebrows. "I think your future Bucky just wanted to make sure that you and I stayed on the most immediate task. Remember, at first, he said we could do it alone. Then he agreed the Commandos could come. Why else would he say that?"
Shaking his head, Bucky waited for the voice to counter what Steve just said but he remained silent. With a resigned breath, Bucky nodded his head, then rolled his eyes as Steve gleefully went to the others and gave them the go-ahead to implement a plan they had already drawn up. He returned to Bucky's side with a grin, then pulled his black headgear on, the need to hide his true identity necessary.
"Ready? Race you to the fence."
He took off, and Bucky groaned then ran after him, still dealing with the realization that he could keep up with Steve, at least for a time. Just as he began to slow down, they reached their destination, and Steve jumped up to the top of the observation tower, tossing the two guards over like they were trash. Bucky finished the job, punching them for good measure then tied them up. Both men took the weapons with them. Just as they reached the second tower an explosion at the far side of the facility drew the attention of every guard near them, sending them running towards the scene. Steve jumped up to the top of the next tower and tossed those two guards over then landed on the other side of the fence, waiting for Bucky to finish them off. Both men grasped hold of the wire and pulled it apart, allowing room for Bucky to get through. They ran towards the administration buildings, stopping along the way as teams of soldiers ran towards the obvious sounds of a gun battle. Just as they were about to run, a hand on Bucky's shoulder startled him and he whirled around ready to shoot. The obvious prisoner stepped back, holding his hands up.
"American?" he asked. "Rescue?"
"American, yes. Rescue, no." Bucky looked at the man's disappointment then unloaded all the weapons he took from the tower guards, grabbing them off of Steve as well, and giving them to the prisoner. "Hole in the fence. There." He pointed towards the second tower. "Escape. Go."
With understanding in his eyes, the man gathered the weapons close then ran to a nearby building, where an outer door opened then closed as he entered. A few moments later it opened again to several armed prisoners leading the others towards the second guard tower. As they encountered other guards, they engaged them in battle then distributed their weapons amongst the others. Returning his attention to Steve they ran towards the building where Zola said his lab was and entered it, finding the door to the lab locked with a combination lock set into the door. They dialled the correct combination and opened it, turned on the light and looked for the locker where the serum was supposed to be stored. Finding it, Steve broke that lock with his hands and opened the doors. Both men gasped when they saw all the serum that was sitting there, dozens of cases with six vials in each container.
"There's enough here for many men," said Steve. "Bucky, we can't let them keep it and it's too much to safely carry."
"Fuck. Hey! What are we supposed to do with all this serum?" he cried out, wanting an answer from the voice.
There was no answer and once again he was faced with the dilemma of it being his decision. Grabbing a satchel, he took out what was needed for himself, then added several more cases, grabbing some lab coats and stuffing them in to cushion the cases. Steve did the same then looked at all the serum that was left. Noticing a Bunsen burner attached to a gas outlet, Bucky opened the valve and several others fully as Steve did the same then they retreated to the door of the lab. Lighting an emergency lantern that was just outside the door, Bucky tossed it inside, watching as the fire spread. The two men glanced at each other then began running towards the hole in the fence, where dozens of prisoners were lined up to get out. Ignoring them, they both pulled another portion of the wire fence apart and burst through followed by other prisoners. After quickly leaving them behind, the two men ran to the rendezvous point where they were joined by rest of the Howling Commandos, spread between two stolen motor cars, their faces flush with the knowledge that they had destroyed a Nazi concentration camp. Jumping inside the vehicles, the order was given to return to the aircraft. Along the way a large explosion occurred behind them and both Steve and Bucky smiled at each other, knowing they were the cause of it. Their pilot started up the aircraft as they abandoned the vehicles and clambered on, taxiing it to the end of the runway.
"We got company!"
Steve and Bucky both looked out the cockpit window at several trucks of German soldiers approaching them. The pilot applied full throttle then lifted off well before they had set up their anti-aircraft weapons. Circling towards the west they were soon approaching the border with France, taking some flak from the defences there. After Gabe successfully contacted the base in England they were left alone as they flew over the channel and prepared to line up for the runway. In all that time, the voice never spoke a word until just as the tires made contact with the pavement.
"Good work."
"Where were you?" asked Bucky. "You seriously expected that Steve and I wouldn't help them?"
The Commandos watched, having been read in on Bucky's future counterpart.
"No, I never expected that, but you still had to stay on mission. History just never knew that the Commandos and either of you were involved in this. We had to keep it that way. You were a mystery Allied unit that helped a bunch of prisoners escape from a concentration camp that was also a site for human experimentation. It was always going to happen, but the circumstances dictated how, and I didn't have the information to tell you that."
Bucky grunted, slinking back into the bench as the aircraft taxied towards a far building. They were being picked up far away from prying eyes, transported directly to a camp where Colonel Phillips would advise him where he had to go for the full treatment. One more step completed since that first step to the left that started this whole thing.
"Bucky?"
"What?"
"It's hard to be out of the loop but if I tell you too much too soon, then there's a good chance we don't get the outcome we want. When I get there, you and I will have a private talk and I'll tell you everything that I'm permitted to tell you."
"Alright, I guess. Tell me something. Is Steve in your future just as impulsive as he is now?" There was no answer. "Bucky?"
Still no answer. Why didn't he answer? Better yet, why didn't Steve from the future have a connection to this Steve? There was no time to dwell on that as the aircraft came to a stop and the exit door was opened. But it was definitely something he was going to bring up to his counterpart.
